


Serpent Visions

by osmalic



Category: Yami No Matsuei, by Yoko Matsushita
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-06
Updated: 2003-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:10:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmalic/pseuds/osmalic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nagare visits a sakura tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serpent Visions

The sun shone too brightly but he could not discern if he only thought so because it really _was_ too bright or because of his sensitive eyes. The rays, however, were not warm enough to dispel the chill that continued to surround his body. Trying not to shiver too obviously, he tugged at the sleeves of his yukata and looked away from the bright sky, trying to remember where he had put the thing he was to bring.

"Ah, Master..." The voice hesitated and he turned to glance at the servant woman who bowed quickly as soon as his eyes laid on her. "The flowers..." She held out three stalks of chrysanthemums, plucked freshly from the flower beds surrounding the gate.

"...Aa." He hesitated for only a brief moment before reaching out to take them from her hands. Unlike normal golden chrysanthemums, they were three shades lighter, almost white. "How could I have forgotten?" he murmured.

The woman kept her head bowed as she backed away but he had already forgotten about her as he turned again to the path stretched before him, clutching the three stalks. The path, a mere trail really, was rarely used because it led to nowhere except to a bamboo grove and some sakura trees; more so since a lot of stories had been told about the nameless woman killed that night and about the ghost of a boy who wandered through it, eternally lost.

He hoped this was not true. Since that grove and sakura tree was his destination now. Had always been his destination every morning, since that morning he had found him.

* * *

He dreamt of him a lot of times, especially after they had scattered his ashes on the lake: he could not anymore remember if it was out of defiance or repentance. That boy always had his back to him whenever he dreamt and would never turn to him; he would never call out. He did not have to see his face, he just needed to see the figure, even the silhouette. After all, he knew the boy's features: they had the same pale hair, the same sharp nose, same green eyes.

And he didn't need to hear his voice because the screams the boy used to give when he was alive still echoed in his mind. It did not make him proud, breaking the boy's voice into sobs when he knew that same voice would sound better when laced with laughter. But he himself rarely laughed when he was young and it was always a strange sound. Laughter reminded him of his punishment, the same punishment he would have been forced to give the boy.

Whenever he had heard laughter, he further hardened his heart and pushed more and more, fighting time, had rushed to save the boy using his own screams.

* * *

He took one step forward, then another, and another. They were all hesitant at first, like a babe learning how to walk, but the further he got, the more his resolve strengthened until he felt that he could walk on until the sakura trees without stumbling and ruining the flowers he brought.

....There.

Right there.

Nearing an almost worn spot, he knelt on the earth and brushed away the brown chrysanthemums he had brought only yesterday. Everyday, he brought at least one flower and always the next day they would be brown as if the earth he offered it to rejected the very gift; yet still, he persisted. It was the only thing he could do.

After all, repentance was out of the question. He was not sorry for what he did. If he **should** , he would do it again.

* * *

It was a few weeks after the scattering of ashes that the dreams changed. The boy was not dressed in the oversized yukata they had made him wear before; instead, he wore jeans and oversized shirts while his face was always etched with a perpetual scowl. Wishful dreams, he would tell himself once he woke. A glimpse of what-could-have-been, had he allowed it.

And from then on, the dreams rapidly progressed. It would almost always begin and end the same: of slinky water serpents slithering around him, more a feeling than actual reality. But between those horrid images were dreams of the boy, sometimes indignant, sometimes exasperated, most of the times angry. It amazed him. He had never seen those emotions in his son. He had never thought that those eyes, identical to his, could reflect such vivid expressions.

The first dream had been a disjointed story, almost as appalling as the time he had found the boy beneath the sakura tree: a vampire, a singer, an eye that never seemed to shut, an understanding smile, and a dragon. Images jumbled together, making no sense. _Such fantasies,_ he chided himself when he awoke. But the blood that dripped from the boy's neck to his hands had felt so real. So was the anger that radiated from him, spreading over the room, not solely focused on one person.

Oh, so the boy was angry at him? He found this strangely fitting. Even his dreams, his son would always hate him. He could not blame him for this.

* * *

When he returned from his morning walk, another maid was waiting for him, hands fluttering over her sleeves. "Master," she gasped when he was within range, "the Mistress is..." She stumbled when he quickened his pace and rushed past her. "...she is calling for you."

He graced her with no glance nor reply, only letting himself nod briefly as he went to the direction of his wife's room and slid the door open to reveal the spacious, darkened room. In the middle stretched a futon, unmade and empty. He looked around quickly, eyes already adapted to the dimness, tongue lashing quickly in the air to taste the atmosphere, to find her, only to hear the scratching of nails on the floorboards before he could see her.

In the corner, she crouched and squinted at him. Her black hair, which used to be rich, now lay in thick tangled heaps on her shoulders and tumbled over her back and face. She shivered. "Nagare," she whispered.

He immediately slid the door close, ignoring the sharp gasps from the servants who quickly jumped back to avoid the movement. "Master--!" one protested.

"Prepare hot water," he ordered before crossing the room.

His wife flew into his arms and he held her, hands slipping into the yukata to touch her skin. Fingers slid over the shoulders and around it, drawing her closer and they pressed their bodies together as if it was important that they do not part. His hand traveled lower, over her chest, spanning over her breasts, pausing on the belly. Already, it had become swollen. His heart tightened and he felt himself almost fly into a rage. Instead, he swallowed and held her tighter as they sank on the floor.

"You've come, you've come!" she babbled, pressing her lips against his neck, hot breath making him shiver. "My husband, would you protect me from all those that seek me harm?"

It sounded too much like a prayer so he could not answer. Instead, he picked her up and brought her to the futon just as a servant called from outside the screen that the hot water was ready. He took the pan and cloth from them and bid them to leave once more before returning to his wife and after undressing her, ran the damp cloth over her skin.

"Tell me again," she said suddenly, voice cold as she stared at the ceiling. "How you found it."

He hesitated, hands pausing from their work before he began to describe in a monotonous tone the pale figure he had found underneath the drooping sakura near the bamboo grove. She twitched beneath him, because of pain or satisfaction he did not know, but he ignored it, hating her, hating the boy, hating himself.

* * *

There it was again, those purple eyes. The face of the person was always laughing but his son was always angry at him for trying to protect him. The dreams were sometimes clear, almost like they told him a story, but they were always filled with death. All in different settings, in different times, the visions of his son in a celebration filled with people whose faces were a blur to him; in a posh all-boys' school and wearing a special uniform; or in an exotic, beautiful place that looked similar to Kyoto, fighting despair and succeeding.

He had no favorites but he always craved for them, left him wishing for more. A hiss in his mind would sometimes surround the dreams about his son, but he would always try to push it away. Still, the serpent-like figure would wrap around the boy, almost gently, and laugh.

 _You cannot have him,_ he would then tell that figure. _I made sure of it._

 _Have you?_ the voice would counter, running his thin tongue over the boy's neck, now dressed in formal clothes and walking with a pretty girl as they tried to keep their balance over the gentle sway of the ocean cruiser, or now standing beside a muscled man as they watched men and women dance in a lavish ballroom.

His hands would clench and he wanted to shout. "You will die with me," he told the serpent tersely.

And again, the serpent would laugh. _We shall see about that._

* * *

He told her about the dreams even though they would only increase her hatred but he did not want to keep this from her. They hated his son for different reasons and she was his wife. So he would creep to her side sometimes and tell her those dreams as she clung to him, murmuring names of dead people.

"Does he have friends?" she would whisper over and over again.

"Yes," he would tell her, not quite lying, not quite telling the truth. "A lot."

"That bastard. Is he happy?"

"Yes," he would say again, still not sure of the indecisiveness in his voice.

And she would finally touch his fingers. "Does he hate us?"

And here, he would finally tell her the truth. "Of course he does."

She would smile and he would almost smile back. This was one of their few common triumphs: that they had succeeded to make the boy hate them. She would laugh, a hysterical laugh that would make him cringe and look away.

But he would try to remember the reason for it. His dreams were like windows to another time, another life, but they always had one thing in common: his son hated them. _At least,_ he would think as his wife wept in his arms, _I managed to save him._

* * *

The serpent was invading his dreams now and he now rarely saw his son. His wife had stopped asking questions, the new doctor was asking more. More and more, he would spend time to himself, hiding the changes undergoing his body. His eyes had gone first, the pupils stretching and thinning so they likened eyes of a snake and were almost just as blind. Next had been his senses, his tongue becoming more sensitive to the air and his skin becoming more susceptible to feel vibrations.

He was almost glad of these changes. Truly, they had angered the god. Finally, the burden was becoming too unbearable, but he would always remember that he had saved his son from becoming this _monster._

Hisoka had been empathic. He could feel other people's pain, fear, joy without even touching them. While younger, he already had an inkling of the dangerous secret their family protected for hundreds of years. Angered, ashamed, fearful, Nagare kept him from their sights. It had been his idea to place him in a cell, to momentarily forget that the time would come for the boy to accept this responsibility as part of the Kurosaki clan. _Hate me,_ he silently ordered the boy. _Only then will you have the strength to fight this beast we are destined to become._

Rui hated Hisoka with a passion and he did not, could not, stop his wife from feeding the boy's anger. He had, after all, resolved not to feel anything for his son so it would not feel so much like betrayal when the time came for the serpent to be passed on.

But it was Nagare who had found the boy under the sakura tree near the bamboo grove, his blood staining the grass and his yukata, semen between his thighs and on his face and stomach. From his upper torso all the way down to his thighs, there were scars so intricately done that he almost paused to admire them. The next day the scars disappeared as if they had never been there, and would never again appear but for that brief moment before the boy released his last breath.

And then, only then, had Nagare felt himself breathe a little easier.

The night his son died was the only night he visited the sakura tree. There, he laid his first chrysanthemum and said fiercely, "Now, you are _free."_

* * *

He dreamt a lot of dragons. At first, he thought it was because of the serpent, but then he realized that this dragon had none of the poisonous water the snake had with him. Also, there was sometimes fire.

And that man, the man who had purple eyes, who cried out he wasn't human, that he was a demon.

He could barely see but he admired the strength of the fire dragon that surrounded the man with purple eyes. Amused and strangely detached, he watched as his son rushed to the fire and embraced the man.

He felt his heart constrict painfully. "You fool," he whispered. "How can you protect him when he is not human?"

Then cold scales enveloped his body and he held out his arms, wondering how he could feel such chill in the midst of all this massive burning. "How alike we are," he said aloud just as he was beginning to find himself stirring to wakefulness and staring at the darkness of his room, "that we continue to be slaves to demons!"

* * *

"Kasane would have hated him," Rui told him once, surprising him as he was rising from her side. The words came out bitingly as if she was fighting something. "She would have drowned him had she known about him."

"Would she?" he asked uncaringly, palm against his knees to steady himself but she stopped him with her voice once more.

"She would have killed him," she hissed without hesitation. Then, accusingly, "You dream a lot about him. Did you care for him?" Without waiting for his reply, she went on, "I never had dreams about him."

"You are fortunate," he told her before put a hand over her stomach.

Water churned inside and something kicked. Two years had passed since that day he watched his son lose his last battle against death. He knew somehow that he should inform the new doctor and his assistant about this problem. He still did not know if he should trust them and their questions, after all, they had arrived too conveniently. He did not wish to think that they were his brother's spies but he could not be all too sure.  And perhaps hint a little to his older brother, just because he could not bear that smug smile. He had never told his brother about the dreams. He had never told him about the dragons.

"Kasane will come back. She's always here, waiting..." She shifted and turned her back to him so that her voice was muffled when she next spoke. "Will you assure me she will not kill me?"

He was unable to answer.

"Tell me about the little demon."

He then began to tell her the new story, of how his son was now in another strange world filled with unusual characters, how he sought power and craved respect. He told her how he wished to protect someone, that person who wept before a fire dragon. The fire dragon had seemed important then, but he suddenly remembered a part of his dream that he had forgotten when he woke and only recalled now. How his son could control water-based elements.

"Empathy and water dragons!" she cried out, wringing her hair. "How our ancestors would glorify this monster! Your father would be proud!" Even in the darkness, he could sense the stirrings of hysteria once more rising within his wife. "Appropriate," she screamed, flinging her arms as if to ward of unseen demons, "that we killed off the one person who might have been able to save this family!"

And that was the last time they spoke freely. Slowly, she again began to succumb to delusions, would scream in the middle of the night and crawl all over the room, mumbling to herself. She hardly recalled they had a son once.

As for him, water had begun to invade his dreams, drowning his visions as if to defy those images of his son facing fire and barely succeeding. Those would bring him more pain and changes. His body, violated and ruined, would jerk into the invisible scales, and he would wonder if this was how his son had felt those six long years before.

* * *

For the first time in years, he went to the sakura tree during nighttime. Walking again the path that he had come to loathe, he absent-mindedly dispelled the fireflies, carefully trying not to tread over the patches of weed that had begun to show on the trail.

Once there, he thought he saw the blossoms sparkle and glow, but it was impossible. It was not the season for cherry blossoms.

So he stood before the tree, eyes not needing the pale moonlight to see the stain on the soil of blood that would not be washed by the rain.

Earlier that night, for the first time in many months, he had dreamt again of the boy, of a fiery dragon wrapping itself around his son, of a water dragon who felt a little like himself, of the purple-eyed man who held his son's hand and smiled. It had made him happy until that wretched serpent clouded the visions once more, drowning him.

"You're safe," he said aloud, stepping forward only to learn that he had unconsciously crushed the chrysanthemum he had brought early this morning. When he knelt he realized that it was still fresh, as if only recently plucked from the garden.

Suddenly he felt something cold come over him and he let himself fall on the ground, fingers curling over the soil where the boy had once lain. _Oh yes,_ he wanted to cry out, _we are the same, you and I! Cursed in an existence we never wished for, never wanted, forever carrying the burden of people we are destined to hate!_

For the first time, with his scaly palms, he covered the eyes that were no longer his and wept for his son. Tears trailed over his cheeks and over his mouth and he pressed one palm over his mouth to muffle his sobs. He allowed himself to feel that strange relief and happiness for saving him, for releasing him from damnation.

Yet he could not understand why he murmured over and over, "Don't ever come back, don't ever come back."


End file.
